


The Elder Scrolls: Warband of Worms

by SlutWriter



Category: Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Big Cocks, Degradation, F/M, Gangbang, Gore (Minor), Humiliation, Incest, Mind Break, Mind Control, Monsters, Multi, Non-sexual Violence, Other, Rape, Rimjobs, Verbal Abuse, huge cocks, non-con, ntr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28284675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlutWriter/pseuds/SlutWriter
Summary: Pendle, an Argonian necromancer and assassin, is forced into service by the Warband of Worms, a marauding bandit group in service to the daedric prince of defilement, Molag Bal.
Kudos: 36





	The Elder Scrolls: Warband of Worms

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a commission.

“Paint the edifices of Cyrodiil with blood and excrement in his name! Go forth, for the glory of Molag Bal!”

The cry rang out from the hooded cultist, a sound overflowing with glee, and the guttural voices of the monstrous warband echoed it back, their gibbering numbers excited by the prospect of pleasure and plunder. The assault had been underway for only two or three minutes, but already the thatched roof of peasant houses were burning, barrels of wine were overturned, with men and demons guzzling with sloven indulgence at the nectar pouring forth. 

None of the fleeing townsfolk took notice of the black-armored Argonian walking with measured steps in the main thoroughfare, dressed in the cladding of a warrior rather than a cultists’s robe. He stood six foot tall, his reptilian body carrying a noble bearing. His scaled facial features cut around his pronounced jaws in regal lines, and the measured way that he observed the carnage was much different from the gibbering and slavering masses. The other bandits called him “Argonian”, for he was the only one of the lizard-folk among the band. None knew that his true name was Pendle.

Pendle was a participant in the orgiastic conquest only on sufferance, his previous station having been subject to a similar raid. The decision to join had been made out of pure preservation, on his knees, with the taste of his blood in his mouth. And it was only because he had demonstrated his necromantic powers that a choice was given him at all.

Die. Be enslaved. Or join the Warband Of Worms.

On that fateful day some months past, every other resisting party had been slain and his body burned. The way Pendle saw it, only one of those choices allowed him the freedom to take some measured vengeance down the road. And so for the moment he was among those razing and ruining the villages and farms of Cyrodiil, a province left vulnerable in the power vacuum produced by the Three Banners War.

“Easy as takin’ candy from a baby,” came an ale-slurred voice from his shoulder, the sound arriving only moments before the familiar scent of spirits. Jerrick. An Imperial who had joined up with the Warband of Wurms out of sheer love of theft and rape, he was blue-eyed, blonde-haired, bearded, brutish, and brandishing a spiked mace that had already seen action, judging from the splatters of blood and brain matter on it. Pendle inwardly grimaced. Jerrick was a lout and a thief of low station. The man was ever skulking around at the behest of the warband’s leader, Naeldur. Naeldur was suspicious of Pendle, resentful of his skill, and Jerrick was more than happy to stay in the Altmer vampire’s good graces by spying.

Now, Jerrick gestured toward the burning and debauchery taking place. Just twenty paces away, grief-stricken young women were being lined up against the wall of a smoldering building by hungry faced cultists, their bodices and blouses torn open to expose their breasts. An Imperial farmboy who could have been older than sixteen moved to defend the honor of his favored girl, only to be cut apart in an instant by daedric swords and the heavy axe of a minotaur. With his last breath he took in the sight of his busty, flaxen-haired love being forced to kneel in front of a trio of huge, ruddy Redguard penises that seemed poised to explode in her face with the same vigor that his blood was now pouring from his wounds. The laughing bandits gripped her head like a melon as they passed her mouth from one hanging, heavy prong to the next.

The youth shortly expired, and not one to waste a meal, a minotaur leaned down, plucked his eye from its socket, and popped it into his mouth like candy as the throat-fucked girl was forced to watch and gurgled with dismay. “Ahhh, I love a good rape!” Jerrick crowed, clapping Pendle on the back. The Argonian hid his annoyed expression only with difficulty; any frustrated exhalation of breath was covered by the wails and cries of the victimized. “This town is special to me. I used to be sweet on a girl here. But she turned me out, married another. Can you imagine the pluck?”

“A woman, turning you down?” Pendle said, not making eye contact. “Unthinkable.” Even under constant pressure to pretend he was as murderous and bloodthirsty as the rest, he couldn’t bring himself to treat Jerrick like anything but the trash he was. He could have easily struck the man down in the street - his skills with a blade had been honed during his time with House Mornin of High Rock, cutting throats for the debauched nobles who schemed from their manor houses. Jerrick knew nothing of this. He was a fool who knew nothing but what was in front of him - gold, trinkets, or pussy.

But Jerrick either didn’t realize the sarcasm or didn’t care. “Aye, a sad story. But now she’s had a change of heart. I paid her a visit, like I said, and I guess me and her man had a disagreement about her tits and pussy and whether I should be fuckin’ ‘em. Turns out she’s got a daughter, too - been a right busy bitch in the fifteen years since I asked her for some stinkfinger behind the tannery.”

“Fascinating,” Pendle said. A crowd of goblins and banekin, the latter following their summoner, ran in front of them across the road, looking for plunder and women to defile. His hand dropped to his sword hilts with quickness that betrayed his skills in martial matters to be the equal of his abilities with necromancy, then rose again just as quickly as he judged the pack to be no threat.

“So I got a job for you, Argonian. This hubby of hers got shuffled off by my good ol’ smashin’ stick before he could see me puttin’ to her and his lovely teen daughters, along with a dozen or so other Worms.”

Pendle immediately knew what Jerrick had in mind; years of operating in the darkness of noble desires had attuned him acutely to the most savage corners of the mortal heart. He kept his face cool despite the monstrousness of it. If he refused, no doubt Naeldur would hear of his lack of enthusiasm - and the time was not yet right for rebellion or escape. “Lead the way,” he said, seeing no other alternative. There were dozens of pairs of eyes on him, measuring his willingness to drown Imperial lands in blood and rape in service to Molag Bal, the daedric prince that, for the moment, Pendle claimed to serve. And in order to assuage suspicions, some measure of dark dealings would be required.

Jerrick led him along the small main street in the village center; the whole outpost was only twenty dwellings or so. Outside of each burning house the females were lined up, stripped and bent over. The bandits congregated behind their splayed legs in loose lines, producing whatever genitalia their race could boast. There was much weeping, much crying out. The bodies of males who had tried to take up arms were piled in alleys, seeping red pools into the grasses and cobblestones.

Blood-cloaked cultists intermingled with armored bandits in the chaos, the former crying out for the glory of Molag Bal and pledging to bring violation to every corner of Tamriel. The line of weeping women and girls was at twenty five or more, all on their hands and knees, their breasts hanging down, sow-like, while males of every original strode up and spread their supple buttocks, scything into their unwilling anuses with a perfunctory coating of grease or spit if they were lucky, and no lube at all if they weren’t. Their tongues hung out of their mouths and tears streaked their faces, and those in couplings particularly unnatural - mounted by goblins or banekin, or even the huge and filth-streaked penises of the minotaurs - wept and shuddered with shame.

Jerrick turned down an alleyway and Pendle followed. “All for the glory of Molag Bal,” Jerrick said, and gave Pendle a knowing look. Pendle knew that Jerrick was dedicated to serving Molag Bal about as much as cleaning his yellowed teeth - he only paid lip service to the daedric prince in order to maraud with the Warband of Worms and rape as much as he liked. Entering the third house, Pendle found the interior ransacked and all drawers and dressers opened and looted, with the man of the house slumped against the wall in the main living area, head caved in by the blow of a mace.

Against the wall, huddled and embracing, were a rather busty and shapely mother and two daughters, young and blonde, their bodies only just blossoming into adulthood. Their frames were slight compared to the mother’s wide hips and large bust, the latter feature of which was on display thanks to her dress being torn to expose her large and heavy tits. They had not moved because they were captives, held at swordpoint by a pair of cultists who had no doubt been instructed by Jerrick to keep watch.

“Well, Raelee,” Jerrick rumbled, striding into the room and grabbing at his codpiece. “I’ll bet you never saw this coming when you slapped my hand away and called me ugly.” He laughed, and the woman, brown-haired and carried a harried and mourning beauty, shot him a look of pure hatred. 

“You’re a monster,” she spat. “You’ve killed my husband, stolen all of our belongings. What more can you possibly do?”

Jerrick smiled wide, and the mother clutched her twin daughters closer and lowered her eyes.

“I should have known,” she said. “Please… do what you will with me but spare my daughters. They’ve not yet even started their monthly courses.”

_ That’s a lie, _ Pendle thought.  _ Your daughters have been giving you no end of trouble, old mother, attracting the attention of the farm boys and lecherous drunks who frequent the tavern. They are fertile, and curious, and that truth is written on your face. But I understand why you would tell that lie, old mother. I really do. _

“Oh, I’ll do what I will with you, alright,” Jerrick growled, unbuttoning the fly of his britches. “And that handsome prince you passed me up for will watch every moment!” He threw back his head and laughed, and the wide-eyed Raelee, her brunette hair tied back in a pleasant pony tail from which several wild strands had slipped and fallen over her forehead, looked at him with fearful bewilderment.

Jerrick gestured toward Pendle. “Go on, Argonian. Let’s get her husband walking and talking again.” 

Pendle hesitated. The foulness of Jerricks intentions was astounding. And though the hesitation was slight and his feelings hidden from the expression on his face hidden, as he’d carefully trained himself to do, Jerrick prodded him quickly. “Do it!” the slovenly man hissed at him, lowering his voice slightly so the two cultist ‘guards’ wouldn’t overhear. “Or I might just say a few things to old Naeldur about you, and how when you’re tending to the slaves, you don’t show much enthusiasm for captive flesh, even with a feast of pussy and ass for the taking.”

Pendle’s dark reptilian eyes blinked and narrowed at the threat. As a new member of the warband, tending to captured sex slaves was among his many demeaning tasks, a duty that included whatever performative debauchery the more veteran bandits could imagine. The women, captured Imperials for the most part, with a smattering of other races, were chained neck and wrist and kept near wherever the band made camp for the relief of any and all who wished to use them. Even their feeding was steeped in the perverse, as they were made to consume the gathered semen of the band from a daedric chalice in a rite that was ostensibly a tribute to Molag Bal. 

Regardless of who was on slave-keeper duty on a given night, he was expected to add to that bounty of issue himself. Pendle had done so, many times - letting his long and heavy penis slide forth from the slit below his abdomen, a meaty and sinewy length of pinkish red with an almost tongue-like tapered tip - and allowing the browbeaten women to relieve him, their soulless eyes blank with a need to swallow semen that had been trained into them day after day. Yet, he did so with none of the grunting, abusive enthusiasm of his counterparts, who enjoyed slapping the girls, dumping loads of cum onto their eyeballs or up their noses, or pissing in their near-catatonic faces and all over their tits.

It should still have been enough to convince the others he was part of the Warband of Worms. But clearly, Jerrick had been watching closely, a foul, skittering insect with an instinctual recognition of one’s own, and had found Pendle too austere, too noble, to be of his ilk. 

Pendle decided then that Jerrick would have to die. But not yet. First, there was a grim task ahead, one that would provide suitable cover for what he planned. Raising one hand in incantation, he directed his necromantic powers toward the slumped corpse against the far wall of the room. The mother, Raelee, gasped and covered her daughters eyes, tucking their heads tight against her ample bosom, shielding them from the unnatural act that was unfolding. A glistening glow seemed to travel from Pendle’s clawed fingertips to the corpse… and shortly, the head and limbs began to move. First, it was as if the dead man had been gripped by a seizure, but then his arms, legs, and head seemed to coordinate themselves. His neck turned and he raised his jaw, surveying the room with faded, milked-over eyes.

Yet, there was no mistaking that fact that the man was still dead. His head was still bashed open, blood was still coating one side of his face - though the flow had stopped, proof of the mortal nature of his condition. Only by the grace of Pendle’s spellcasting was he moving and somewhat aware. The Argonian could feel that the man’s soul had not yet departed - his death had been recent - and so a final foul pantomime of his tendencies and intelligence in life would play out before he was finally released.

An inarticulate moan slid from the corpse’s mouth, and Jerrick threw back his head and laughed with his cruel intent before moving to where Raelee and her daughters were huddled. Not even death, it seemed, could spare the man the indignity of seeing his wife and daughters defiled. The twin flaxen-haired beauties, their youthful and nubile bodies trembling, were torn from their mother, their clothes ripped to reveal tender and developing teen bodies. Working together, Jerrick and the Redguard cultists shortly had every stitch of clothing off of the three.

“Raeeeeee...lee…” the corpse croaked. Pendle continued his spell, telling himself this was only a price that had to be paid for Jerrick’s ultimate end. Perhaps a more noble being would have revealed his objection and raised his swords, fighting bravely in a three-on-one situation for a man who was already dead, assuring his own demise and nothing gained, but Pendle had seen enough of nobility to know how foolish it was.

Jerrick let his heavy, hairy penis fall out of his britches and the cultists opened their robes as well, producing dark-skinned, heavy tools that were of brutal contrast to the fair-skinned, naked bodies of their victims. “Now your husband gets to watch from hell while you suck on cock!” Jerrick crowed, and mashed his prick helmet against Raelee’s cheek, smearing her with the grease of his unwashed prong. He swabbed her first with his leaking cocktip, then his balls, while she reeled in disgust and continued to moan and shake her head in negation, driven to despair by the foul resurrection before her eyes and the even fouler contents of Jerrick’s codpiece.

Only when the two cultists started to manhandle the girls was her attention secured. “No!” she cried, and the corpse of her husband echoed with a ghastly wail. “No, spare my daughters, please!” The two dark-skinned penises poised next to their young mouths seemed large enough to spear straight down their throats and nearly reach their tender stomachs, and this visual no doubt encouraged her compliance. “I’ll do as you wish!”

“I won’t tell you you can save your daughter’s virtue,” Jerrick growled. “Because you can’t. But if you’re good and friendly, we’ll do them gentle-like. And they’ll have their livers and lights intact instead of having daedra heads slung in their bellies, drinkin’ from their guts!” He brandished his thick, hairy root in Raelee’s face and Pendle could almost see a light go out of her eyes and replace itself with dull, defeated compliance. He had seen spirits broken before, but seldom so thoroughly and without the aid of magic.

“Do it,” Jerrick said. “And tell your hubby what you’re doin’!”

Raelee reached up and took hold of the fat penis, her hand barely able to get around half of the swollen pipe, which was crackling hard because of the utter depravity of the situation. “Look… Orlan,” she said, her voice dead, addressing the corpse of her mate. “I’m sucking the… the huge penis of the man who is going to rape and defile our daughters!” She leaned in and took the meat in her mouth, stretching her lips, making her jaw creak. As her upper lip and nose plowed into Jerrick’s fat belly and forest of crinkly pubic hairs, her eyes were unblinking, the color faded. Her bare tits bounced as she sucked and gagged and choked like a pig. The two daughters looked on with shameful faces, unable to imagine their mother doing such a thing, while the two Redguards lingered behind them, stroking their cocks and growing more and more excited.

“Take a look, dead man,” Jerrick crowed. “I’ve killed you, and now you can rot for eternity knowing I’m going to rape your wife and daughters every day with my fat cock!” He thrust his hips lewdly, spearing his saliva-splattered meat into the kneeling woman’s mouth, causing bursts of spit bubbles to splatter down her chin and to the floor, gleefully enjoying the act. For several minutes he thrust and grunted, pausing only when Raelee seemed on the verge of passing out, turning her head sideways to allow her to vomit up mouthfuls of throat slime when it seemed she might pass out. The daughters watched with eyes as big as saucers, and their stricken faces seemed to imitate the face of their father’s reanimated corpse.

Jerrick grunted with satisfaction and pulled over an upended chair, setting it right and sitting down, thighs spread, his towering prick glistening and dripping, extending nine inches or more upward with a thickness greater than the slender arms of the two girls. When he reached out and the cultist keepers shoved the daughters into his arms, he took firm grip of their blonde hair and controlled their heads as they crawled before him. Raelee, the mother, uttered a moan of objection, but Jerrick kicked out his leg at her.

“Shut up, bitch! I told you their virtue was mine, and if you want to save their skins, you’ll fall in line. For this warband follows Molag Bal, and to fill a chalice with the blood of such beautiful creatures and drink their essence would be a fitting offering to such as he! But I’ll forego such torture, whore, if you’ll prove the devotion of you and your daughters!”

Pendle knew this was a lie - the two Redguard cultists, the names of whom he did not know, would in time gleefully dismember the whole family and rape their corpses, probably after days or months of enslavement and torture. He saw in their hungry eyes a bare willingness to hold back in order for Jerrick to humiliate the wife, but that was all. They were true followers of Molag Bal. Thus, they would have to die too, if the plan to eliminate his blackmailer was to work. His eyes shifted toward the doorway. The house was isolated, off the main road, and already ransacked. If no further raiders darkened the doorway, he could pull it off.

But first, all present would need to be distracted. Pendle made these calculations all while holding the reanimated corpse in thrall.

Jerrick reached out and gripped the heads of the daughters, bringing their tender young faces to his jutting penis and pressing their lips against the underside of his glans, bidding them kiss and suckle at his length together. “That’s it, girls,” he grunted. “Suck my cock in front of your father. Show him what you’ll be doing for the rest of your days.” At first they turned their faces away, resisting, but when the cultists produced wicked-looking daggers, their mother intervened and leaned her own head in.

“You must… obey him, Kaylee, Selene,” she instructed, her voice choked. “Do as he says… we have… no choice!” With her large, heavy breasts hanging and her buttocks outthrust in twin globes, she leaned forward and ran her tongue up the furrow between Jerrick’s heavy balls, loudly slurping and suckling with submission. The girls, tears welling in their eyes, pressed their lips against the man’s filthy shaft and started to lovingly kiss and lick at his cock, running their small pink tongues over the throbbing veins and irregular bumps on his venerable rape blade.

The husband’s corpse shuddered and groaned out in anguish as it was forced to watch, milked eyes unblinking. The gorgeous blonde girls, totally naked and with their nubile, just-developed bodies on full display, serviced Jerricks fat, long penis with a fearful desperation as the man seethed and gasped his pleasure. He took hold of first one daughter’s head, than the other, fucking it like a hollowed out husk as the other two were forced to suckle his heavy, hairy balls, choking one girl almost unconscious before switching. The Redguards watched, brandishing their daggers and jerking their heavy, abyssinian penises with debauched pleasure, no doubt planning what evils they would perpetuate once Jerrick had raped his fill. Their coal-black pipes drooped and flopped against the girls’ fair-skinned buttocks with ominous intent, leaving trails of semen.

After several minutes - and it seemed like an eternity, given the limited time window the raiders had to sack the village and move on - Jerrick sighed with satisfaction, leaned back on the chair, and pulled up his thick, hairy thighs, exposing his asshole. “Get your tongue in there, girls,” he ordered. “Give your father a good look!”

Pendle felt compelled to say something, if only to hurry the act along to its conclusion, and the accompanying distractions of thrusting, fucking, and orgasm. “We must hurry, Jerrick” he remarked. “The forces of the Aldmeri Dominion are ever-eager to gain influence in Cyrodiil. By now the smoke filling the air has alerted them. They will come to pacify these lands.”

“Be silent,” Jerrick retorted, “and do your magely business. I see again you prefer to prattle your mouth than to fuck.” His eyes were filled with the threat of reporting Pendle’s hesitation to Naeldur, but soon the tickle of young tongues against his anus distracted him completely from the disagreement. “Nnngh! Fuck! Two, young, blonde twin girls are licking my ass… for the glory of Molag Bal!”

The cultists echoed his cry, and then one held the mother at daggerpoint, blade to throat, hugging her body against his leg and forcing her to recite whatever Jerrick wished while the two girls used their highs to spread his flabby buttocks and gain access to his sweaty, hairy, puffy shithole. “L-Look, my husband,” she whimpered, repeating as instructed. “Our daughters… are licking the ass of the man who will rape them for the rest of their lives.” She choked back a sob as tears ran down her cum-stained cheeks. “He beat you in combat… and… and now your daughters… our daughters… tongues… are cleaning out his bowels!”

The twin blonde girls licked and kissed at Jerrick’s anus with sorrowful, humiliated faces. Their tongues, pink and wet and pleasing, burrowed into his asshole as he leaned back in the chair like an overturned mudcrab, limbs lifted. The knife was drawn up to Raelee’s throat tighter as the next instruction was issued, and her tears began to flow more freely. “Thank you… for letting my daughters… suck your asshole,” she moaned. “Please… rape us. Rape us… in front of my husband!” She swallowed thickly. “Let him see us get  _ raped _ before his soul goes to Molag Bal’s oblivion!”

Pendle was about to urge Jerrick to get on with it again, biting his tongue only with difficulty. Mercifully, the corpulent raider had had his fill of teenage ass-licking, and pushed the girls away with his feet, rising from the chair and then moving to arrange the family in hands-and-knees positions on the floor - the mother in the middle, her tits hanging huge like cow udders, the nipples large and raised and porous. Strands of sweaty brunette hair were stuck to her cheeks, and she was gasping as the final moment seemed to be arriving quickly.

Jerrick positioned himself behind the mother and let his heavy, rimjob-hardened cock press between her bountiful buttocks. At the same time, the Redguard cultists moved behind the two daughters, and their heavy, dark cocks flopped onto the backs of the slender girls, so long that they reached up to their waists and slightly beyond, promising a penetration that would be unbelievably destructive to their young pussies.

“You like that, dead man?” Jerrick taunted, while Pendle did his duty and kept the reanimated, tormented corpse in check. “For the rest of your lives, your wife and daughters will be raped every day, all day. You see these Redguards? They love Imperial blondes. Your daughters will learn to fuck and suck them very well, and give birth to babies blacker than soot in Hammerfell!” He thrust his heavy, hairy hips forward and plowed his cock into Raelee without mercy, burying his bone deep as he could and pressing up against her womb, before establishing a thrusting rhythm. Pendle felt his magic pressed sorely as the corpse’s will and soul rebelled against his bindings, trying to rise and attack. The man, even recently dead, had considerable will… but it was not a fair fight, and he maintained his spell. “Hurry, damn you,” he hissed, but Jerrick was too busy indulging himself to heed and hear. 

There was a wet, meaty sound as the two Redguards plowed their desert-burnished penises into the sinfully young, fair-skinned cunts in front of them, causing the girls to scream like fireballs, tossing their long, blonde hair this way and that, their slender bodies bending and bowing under the pressure of the thrusting men. The sloppy sounds of their guts being stirred up and their pussies resized was accompanied by a visible, cock-shaped bulge in both of their trim midsections, as if pikes had been shoved into their innards.

_ Schlllrrp. Sllloorp. _ The moist, degrading sounds of penetration were punctuated by big, onyx Redguard balls battering the girls puffy pussy flaps and their tiny clits, and Jerrick’s fat belly banging against Raelee’s buttocks, which jiggled and clapped spectacularly with each thrust. He reached around and fishhooked her mouth with two index fingers, combining with her rolling eyes to make a humiliating, stretched-out whore face that barely looked human.

“Take a good look!” Jerrick grunted. “Your wife and daughters will be raped, bred, and sold. Once Molag Bal takes your meager soul, you can rot in Oblivion knowing they’ll be slaves, eating nothing but our cum, piss and shit! Nnngh! Fuck, this pussy is as tight as I always thought it would be!” He gasped out a breath and thrust even harder, forcing Raelee down until her chest was against the floor, her ass in the air.

“Look! Your daughters' faces are decorated with hair from my sweaty asshole!” Jerrick crowed. It was true. The eye-fluttering, overwhelmed faces of the two girls, semi-conscious with the brutal penetration of the foot-long Redguard cocks, had crinkly pubic hairs stuck to their lips. As if on cue, the two hulking cultists lifted the spritely girls up into carry positions, arms hooked under their knees, spreading their thighs and lifting them up and down, showing their corpse-father every detail of the huge penises that were tearing up their pussies. The outline of each prick could be seen stretching out the skin of their bellies, well beyond the navel.

“Listen to your wife moan like a sow, dead man! She’s going to cum her brains out from this rape!” Jerrick redoubled his efforts, thrusting harder. Raelee’s body had become more limp as time went on, as if her mind was retreating. Her tongue fell lewdly from her mouth. The Redguards battened their heads down and began to make out with the girls, driving their thick, saliva-loaded tongues into their young mouths, degrading them with devouring, invasive kisses that were loud and sloppy, all the while lifting and dropping their tight hips on their pricks. “You’re going to watch us cum in your wife and daughters, you fool. You couldn’t protect them, and now you’ll see their cunts defiled by the might of Molag Bal!”

His words were growing ragged, his face red beneath his scraggly beard. His orgasm was no doubt in the offing, and with the declaration that he would soon unload, the corpse gave one final cry of pain and rage. This time, though, rather than being restrained… it rose unsteadily and began to move across the room.

“Argonian! Damn you- control that thing!” Jerrick barked, eyes as wide as saucers with fear. But when he looked to where Pendle had been standing… there was nobody there.

There was a great splash and release on the two girls and their mother, and it did happen in nearly an instant. But the liquid in question was not their foul, clumpy semen but something much hotter - their blood. Jerrick’s curse of Pendle was the last word he uttered before Pendle’s blade was viciously rammed through his chest, back to front. The two Redguards, throats cut, slumped forward onto the twins they were raping, showering them in crimson, their penises spurting their orgasms even as they died. The room was filled with screeching cries, and the corpse of the husband, now freed from reanimation, crumbled to the ground. What dim fragments remained of his soul had, at least, seen the death of his tormentor at Pendle’s hands.

The family was weeping and crying, with Pendle the only one left standing in his daedric armor and dark hood. No doubt with his sinister Argonian features and participation in their ordeal, they feared him, and he knew that any further action on his part would only lead to more screams that might draw attention.

Pendle sheathed his blades and said only one word to the wife and daughters: “Run.”

Then, he emerged out into the alley, walking toward the main street, as if nothing had happened. If pressed, he would report that Jerrick and the Redguard cultists had been killed by the husband because of their carelessness and greed, ambushed while ransacking. If he’d realized one thing about the Warband of Worms, it was that during a raid, nobody cared very much at all if any other member met their demise. It only meant more plunder for the rest.

He turned onto the main thoroughfare, stepping over blood and the bodies of slain innocents, and saw that the carnage was coming to a close. All around the periphery of the village, bands of marauders could be seen hauling sacks of plunder toward the treeline; some in great burlap sacks, others in the saddlebags of their mounts. A train of captured women, eight or ten strong, was being pulled west. Most of them were naked, their clothes having been torn from their bodies. The fires were burning down and most of the rape and defilement was at an end. 

Pendle walked up toward the largest house in the village, a well-built place with a roof of wood and two elegantly carved double-doors, built upon a foundation of gathered stones. Many of the Worms had congregated there, but before he could approach, Pendle noticed the familiar daedric armor of the warband’s leader, Naeldur. He was wearing a scowl, and looked to be in a foul mood as he locked eyes with Pendle. The encounter would do nothing to improve his mood, Pendle knew, for Naeldur was both jealous and suspicious of him. 

Pendle stood and watched his ‘leader’ approach. “Hmmph! Argonian fool! You stand idle while the edifices of the Imperials are ripe for destruction.”

“How may I better serve Molag Bal?” Pendle replied, sounding appropriately dutiful. Naeldur was an Altmer who had a noble’s affectation in his speech, he was prideful and sneering and snobbish in the extreme, defects of personality only amplified by his status as a vampire. To feed on another being, Pendle reasoned, one must naturally feel superior to them, and this played out in Naeldur’s contempt for almost everyone around him - even the members of his own warband. To him, everyone, from the mightiest warrior to the most useful sorcerer, was nothing but a tool to use in order to drink blood in Molag Bal’s name.

It was a quality Pendle disliked intensely. He had been ‘raised’ by Breton nobility at High Rock, learning the skills of necromancy and assassination at their forever-superior feet, and never wished to return to their high-handed ways and games of manipulation and performative strength. Many times, he had been made to report on skullduggery while his noble sponsors engaged in unspeakable debauchery, fucking and being sucked by slave girls of every race. And on more than one occasion, he became a pawn in these sexual games. 

_ He could still hear the voice. Have you ever seen an Argonian penis, girl? This one has quite a length. Take it out, stupid girl, and suck it as I watch. He will not mind, he is well-trained. _

Thus, sexual performance had been added to corpse-robbing and murder in the lists of his forced misdeeds. In the end, his contempt for those who had bought and trained him - purchasing him from a dunmer slave caravan for a fraction of the riches he would bring them with his deeds - had grown great enough for him to take action.

Now, Pendle found himself in a remarkably similar situation.

Naeldur walked up to him and gave a curt order. “A headstrong bitch is held at bay in that great house. I believe she was a bodyguard for the landowner there.” His face grimaced with disgust. “She is prideful. Vulgar. I want her broken, and taken with the slave caravans when we go west toward the Highlands.”

_ Why did you just do it yourself _ , Pendle thought but did not ask, for he knew the reason. As a Vampire, Naeldur had considerable powers of seduction and mind control, but these had been on the wane with Molag Bal’s reduced influence following the Three Banner War. Clearly, Naeldur’s powers weren’t up to the task of containing the hellcat in that house. But this posed other, more nefarious questions. Like the question of time.

“My lord, we should already be on the move. If she can be physically restrained, we could take her-”

“I want her broken, now,” Naeldur cut in, his face grave. “Before we depart. And do not disappoint me. I will be watching carefully. Many have questioned your devotion to our cause, Argonian. You must prove your worth.”

_ He poses me an impossible task, _ Pendle thought.  _ And plans to have me executed when I fail. _ Naeldur was making his move, and he wasn’t the only threat. Time really was of the essence, with soldiers and heroes of the Dominion within riding distance and no doubt on the march. He might even succeed, only to find himself neck-chopped by an Aldmeri headsman for his trouble, with Naeldur and the others already departed.

Pendle knew that Naeldur was looking at him intently for any sign of insubordination. He might still be a match for the vampire in combat, but to attack in full view of everyone else would only ensure his own death. He had been backed into a corner. “It shall be done, my lord,” he said, giving a curt bow.

Naeldur nodded, frowning and then moved off down the street toward where the warband forces were starting to skulk off into the treeline. He would be long gone by the time Pendle was done. Pendle moved up the street another ten yards or so, and as he approached the house, a wailing cultist limped by, gibbering with a pained face and clutching his blood-soaked crotch. The man’s falsetto cries seemed to indicate an unplanned, and rather vicious, castration.

“Best to wait until she’s tied down, fool,” Pendle muttered, and approached the door. A minotaur and his cultist handler stood guard in intimidating fashion, glowing at him. They were, he was sure, along those who’d been ordered to execute him if he failed.

“Careful, Argonian,” the cultist said, his voice soft and lethal. “This one has bite.” 

Pendle did not respond, only stepped inside, happening immediately upon a madcap scene. A brutish warband thug was holding the short, spiky hair of a female orsimer, taunting her as she knelt before him, bound wrist and ankle. Despite the compromising position, her face was fiercely defiant. She had the pronounced mandible common to all orcs, making her look sleek and predatory, and her body was muscled, though not heavyset. Pendle could see why she had given the other Worms trouble. Her mouth was streaked with blood, and he had a further hunch that it wasn’t all hers.

“Orsimer bitch, you’ll learn to bow to your new masters!” the thug was yelling. “And if you’ll not suck my cock, I’ll knock your teeth down your stinking throat. So what’ll it be?” His heavy penis was already hanging out of his rough-sewn britches, though, considering what had happened to his predecessor, he didn’t dare put it near her mouth.

“Gharz Yarzkul suffers the tiny cock of no man in her mouth!” the woman bellowed, and Pendle couldn’t help but smile as he watched, hooded, from the corner of the room. Though those present were too depraved and low to realize it, her bravery was a perfect contrast to the bullying and cowardice of the mob. Ironically, Pendle believed she would make a better fighter and warrior than any of her assailants… who, judging from the ransacked house and the four or five bodies laying limp, had overtaken and bound her only by superior numbers.

The brute grimaced and closed his fist. “Then I’ll knock your teeth out, one by one, and rape your throat in the name of Molag Bal!” he growled. Before he could make another clumsy move, though, there was a swish of air and a crunching noise, and his face immediately changed from sadistic rage to shock. The swishing noise had been Gharz propelling her own brow forward in a head-butting attack… and the crunch had been his testicles, mashed flat between his pubic bone and her well-placed forward. His gruff voice became a quavering whimper and he tilted over, cradling his destroyed nuts. A roar of objection went up from the assembled Worms, and Gharz grinned and spat on the ground. “Who’s next?” she cried. “You’ll have no choice but to kill me, scum! I’ll never submit!”

The room filled with suggestions about what to do with her. One cultist suggested putting her eyes out with flaming pokers, and pissing the sockets. Every variation of rape, sodomy and torture was suggested in one form or another, either to her still-living body or to her corpse. Yet Naeldur had ordered that she be taken alive, and whether Gharz knew it or not, that decree meant that there might be a way out for her.

It was Pendle who stepped forward into the center of the room, stepping over the crawling body of the churl who had preceded him without so much as a care. Ignoring the catcalls and jeers asking what an Argonian newcomer could do when others had failed, he knelt before Gharz and made smoldering eye contact as he spoke to her in a low voice. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that. But death is not among your possible options.”

Gharz spat on the floor. “Kill me or release me,” she replied. “ _ Those _ are your options.”

Pendle shook his head, and spoke softly again. “There’s only one way you’re getting out of here alive. You will not like it. But if you can endure it, I promise… you will survive to take your revenge.”

“I am not afraid,” Gharz spat. “Do your worst!” There was sweat dappled in her fit, muscular striations that ran around her shoulders, near her collarbone. The hint of muscle and ribs could be seen down each side of her body. Her breasts, perfectly formed, were yet concealed by a scant, sweat-soaked vest. Her defiance had made her especially beautiful, and there wasn’t a cock in the room, except for Pendle’s, that wasn’t erect with fantasies of how she might be broken.

“I’m sorry to say,” Pendle replied. “That I  _ will _ do my worst. And not for the first or the last time.” From the pouches around his waist he produced a black soul gem, a rare magic foci used only for the most nefarious of spells. He would need to tap into abilities he hadn’t used for years; a mixture of divination and illusion. As he brought the gem upward and held it in his palm, Gharz snaked her head forward to try to bite… but Pendle pulled deftly away, and when she looked up at him in the aftermath, he twisted his clawed hand into something like an eagle’s talon.

There was a rush of magical energy that caused the room to gasp, and lines of violet light emerged from his fingertips and flowed into Gharz’ eyes, causing her to gasp and moan, thrusting out her chest, making her heavy breasts bounce. 

“Fool!” someone cried. “She was to be taken alive!” But he was not killing her. Rather, Pendle was stealing her mind, using ancient techniques learned during his time at House Mornin of High Rock. She would not break easily, that much was certain. But everyone, in Pendle’s experience, had a weakness. And to his practiced instinct, Gharz bravado likely hid a tenderness somewhere, something that could be exploited. He looked deep, pawing through memories.

In her prone position, Gharz fought the mental invasion. She wailed like a banshee. Her muscled buttocks and athletic figure bent and twisted as muscles tensed all over her body, leaving her bottom and breasts outthrust with an arched back. Yet for all her physical strength, her mind wasn’t agile enough to resist him. Her eyes shut and the cacophony of the room faded, the background catcalls and noise reduced to a mute. Then, after a moment, she heard a voice.

An  _ Orsimer _ voice. 

“Sister!” it said, and Gharz’ eyes opened with utter shock. 

“Lukaz!” she blurted, turning her head from side to side until she saw the boy, standing next to the Argonian raider who had cast his magic into her face. He stood only to her captor’s shoulder, being young, and his slender body was totally nude, revealing svelte muscle and a large, young penis. His body was painted with runes and symbols of Molag Bal, though his relative lack of size and bulk made the arrangement seem as cute as it was sinister. “Lukaz, what are you doing? Why are you here?” 

Last she remembered, he had been safe and sound in the Gold Coast, sent there to avoid the worst ravages of war. He had sent her a letter only a week prior. Now, he was standing before her… seemingly a member of the raiding band!

“Sis, I joined up with the Warband of Worms!” the small-fanged youth declared. “They’ve finally given me a place to belong!” His face was one of resolute, unencumbered satisfaction, seeming to ignore the death and misery that was surrounding him. 

_ A place to belong.  _ How many times had she thought of that phrase. Her people had no place to call their own. She had left her own tribe, not wanting to be the pawn of a chief who would direct her to war with this faction or that. A pang of defeat ran through her body. The idea that a gang or thugs and rapists could offer her little brother something she could not struck her deep in a way that their insults and degradation hadn’t. 

Gharz looked up, her head seeming to hang a little for the first time. “Lukaz, how could… how could you-”

“It’s easy, my beloved,” came a second voice - a huskier, adult female voice. This one startled her even more, for it was one she had resigned herself to never hearing again. Gharz had always been a giver in the sexual realm, not a taker, and found herself far more interested in women than posturing men - especially the Imperial types she had surrounded herself with. But there had been an Orsimer trader wide in hip and bust, about her age, who she consorted with whenever business afforded the woman a visit to the countryside.

Gharz turned to her left and saw her - Orakza, naked and on all fours, a heavy chain around her neck, back arched, palms flat, presenting her buttocks and pussy to the rest of the room with what almost seemed like eagerness. Her green skin was a shade lighter than Gharz’, and her complexion softer, more voluptuous, indicating her status as the more feminine of the two. Her hair was longer as well, still high and tight but growing long out the back in several braids. “We spoke of how in all the lands of Tamriel we could not find one that would accept us,” said Orakza, “but now, I understand the true destiny of our people.”

Gharz watched with trembling lips as her younger brother strode confidently up to her beloved and placed his long, fat, young penis between her buttocks. He pressed forward and there was a wet sliding sound as his penis sliced into a pussy that was totally soaked, the green labia parting eagerly to accept his smooth pole. “Ah!” he cried. “It feels… really good!”

“Our people… have only one destiny,” Orakza breathed. “To be raped by the other races of Tamriel. Raped for our lands, our culture. After last I left you… my wagon was preyed upon by bandits who raped me for hours… nnngh!” She gasped and her knees trembled. “Now… a man’s cock pleases me… so much more… than your tongue ever could!”

“The Warband of Worms taught me we orcs are all animals, forsaken by the gods!” Lukaz said, though the gasps of his thrusts and exertion. “We’re the refugee trash of Tamriel, right sis? Nnngh… fuck! Her pussy feels real good! This is where your tongue went all those times, huh?”

Gharz could only stare in defeated, dead-eyed astonishment as the two orcs she trusted most seemed to totally betray her. To her, the unreality of the scene fit right in with the fuzzy feeling in her head, as if everything she knew was being upended. She felt her will slipping, and much of the fight went out of her. If her race was really so low, a race of betrayers and trash… what good was her pride and resistance?

But it was all Pendle’s doing. The onlookers saw the truth of the illusion he was weaving - ‘Lukaz’ was nothing more than a conjured banekin, scampering and gibbering as it fucked lewdly away at the exposed pussy of a female slave who had been brought in at Pendle’s instruction. They were props, stand-ins coated with a deft layer of paint from Gharz’ memory. He had found her weaknesses - self-consciousness about her place in the world and her orcish kind, deep and exploitable loyalty to her brother and female lover - and was now pulling her apart with it.

Pendle concentrated, his face grave, weaving the spell, letting the actors play their parts. Sensing that they would soon be able to partake, the dozen or more bandits and cultists surrounding Gharz began to close in, brandishing their penises.   


He  _ would _ break her. And save her life in doing so. Any damage he did could be undone, any illusion he weaved could be unravelled. It was only a matter of time. She had to break before they heard the thunder of hoofbeats, the lockstep of the Aldmeri Dominion regulators who were no doubt en route. He  _ had _ to succeed. 

Pendle closed his eyes and concentrated. And in Gharz’s mind, her younger brother withdrew his smooth, green cock from Orakza’s pussy and let it bob in her face. “You wouldn’t bite  _ me _ , would you, big sister?” he said, strands of cunt cream still clinging to his shaft. He reached down, a cute orc teenager with long eyelashes and stunted fangs, and milked a degrading rope of pre-cum onto her face.

Gharz hesitated, her body slumping. Then, rather than fight or attack, she reached up and grabbed the penis gently with one hand. Eyes half-lidded, all the defiance seemed to leave her. “No,” she said, weakly. “I’ll… I’ll do whatever you want.” A roar went up from the crowd, and they began to surrounder, brandishing their cocks, daedra and mortal alike. 

The defiant orcess opened her mouth to swallow her younger brother’s cock. Her body fell into the shadows of her defilers.

And Pendle, still weaving his spell, looked at the angle of the setting sun and wondered if their shared fate wasn’t already on horseback. He needed time to prove his worth. Time for debauchery. Time for revenge. Time for escape. 

It seemed there was not enough time in all of Tamriel.


End file.
